


All That Matters (No Matter Where We Go)

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s07e10 Death's Door, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 20:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4759184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is drawing back from Sam. Sam won't let him. [reposted, first posted on livejournal 2/2/2012]</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Matters (No Matter Where We Go)

If you live most of your life in someone's pocket, you learn to read them like an open book. 

Dean is being subtle, Sam will give him that. He thinks maybe Dean doesn't even realize he's doing it. As good as Sam is at reading Dean, Dean himself is kinda bad at being aware of his own feelings sometimes. He buries his emotions under denial and alcohol – he's the king of repression. So Sam gives him the benefit of a doubt when Dean starts drawing back from him.

Dean isn't closing off completely, isn't shutting Sam out of his life. But there are small things, subtle changes, that speak volumes. Like how Sam is the one initiating anything between them these days – Dean happily goes along with everything, but he isn't the one who starts the touching or kissing anymore. He lets things slide that he usually mocks Sam for mercilessly, doesn't even so much as roll his eyes when Sam orders a salad, and he hasn't complained about Sam drinking his coffee with too much sugar and milk in days. There are other things too – at night, Dean turns his back to Sam when they go to sleep. He doesn't resist when Sam spoons him, even covers Sam's hand on his stomach with his own, but it's not the same as before. As much as Dean might deny it, Sam knows he's actually always liked pressing up against Sam's side while they sleep, wrapping himself around Sam like he can shield Sam from the rest of the world that way. Sam finds himself missing that more than he thought possible. 

And then there's the sex. They still have sex, plenty of it, but it feels different now. It's stupid, really, and they've never talked about it, but Dean has always had a thing for marking Sam up. He doesn't do it anywhere obvious, but Sam is used to finding small bite marks and bruises in interesting places all over his body. Dean's favorite place is Sam's hipbone. The hickeys there never fade for long before Dean rolls Sam onto his back and leaves a fresh mark on Sam's hip. He likes to run his thumb over it when he thinks Sam isn't paying attention to Dean's touches, and Sam has always indulged Dean. Dean has always been a bit possessive of Sam, and Sam has never really minded much. Hell, Sam isn't far behind when it comes to possessiveness, really. But Dean is more careful now, like he's somewhere else with his thoughts even when he fucks Sam. 

Sam isn't too proud to admit that it stings.

He never thought having Dean's mark on his body mattered to him – he didn't need reminders to know he belonged to Dean, just as much as Dean belonged to him – but he finds himself surprised at how much it bothers him when he looks into the mirror and can't find any traces of Dean. There are only scars riddling his skin now, some smaller some bigger – reminders of hunts, of past injuries, of the life he's lived since he was a kid. 

Staring into the mirror, cataloging the marks on his body, Sam presses two fingers to his hipbone, imagines Dean's lips there and sighs unhappily.

He knows the whole thing is about Bobby, and even Cas, and everything they've lost in the last few months. He knows Dean isn't drawing back from Sam to hurt him – it's simply how Dean deals with life when it gets to be too much. Sam just wishes Dean's coping mechanisms wouldn't suck as much as they did. 

He thinks that Dean was right in the hospital all those weeks ago, when Bobby was still fighting for his life, even when he was mocking Sam. They survived losing their dad, they survived everything life has dished out. Hugging might not make things any easier, but having each other, being there for each other, might. Sam is determined to make Dean see that.

+

Dean drives them from one state to the next aimlessly. In Virginia, they stumble over a hunt – a simple salt and burn that's taken care of quickly. They stay in the same town for two nights before they're off again.

Unless there's a hunt, they don't stay in one place for more than a night, and more often than not they end up crashing in whatever car Dean hotwired that day. None of them are nearly as roomy as the Impala, and they sleep in the backseats together, leaning into each other. 

They finally get a motel room on the outskirts of Santa Fe. The room is red and orange and green and there's a picture of a cactus wearing a sombrero over one of the two beds. They end up sleeping in the other one, and Sam is glad that Dean is sharing a bed with him. At least, he thinks, that means Dean isn't giving up on them, on Sam, completely. 

The second night in Santa Fe, Dean gets drunk on a bottle of whiskey and then fucks Sam in the bed they're not sleeping in. He rolls Sam onto his stomach, ass in the air, and thrusts in and out of him with sharp, shallow snaps of his hips. He buries his face in Sam's neck, panting hot and wet against Sam's skin, and Sam can smell the alcohol on his breath the whole time. He pretends the way Dean's breath hitches is arousal and the wetness on Dean's cheeks is sweat.

+

"Maybe we should get the Impala back," Sam suggests the next morning over a breakfast of coffee and bagels.

"Yeah?" Dean asks, and there's a spark of interest in his voice.

Sam shrugs. "The Leviathans seem to have us outsmarted anyway," he says and watches the way Dean cringes at the mention of them.

"So what, you wanna play bait?"

"Of course not," Sam replies, a little too sharply before he sighs. "Dean. I just think constantly swapping cars isn't doing much to throw them off...and I kinda miss the Impala."

"You think I don't?" Dean asks, frowning.

"I know you do," Sam says, voice soft. The Impala has been the closest thing they ever had to a home - except Bobby's, he thinks, but he doesn't say it aloud.

"I don't think it's a good idea," Dean says finally, after a moment of silence. There's an empty look on his face that makes Sam's stomach twist up. "We might as well have red blinking arrows pointing at us everywhere we go."

Sam nods shortly. He picks his bagel apart, but doesn't eat it and his coffee grows cold.

+

Sam runs his hands up and down Dean's stomach in small, lazy circles that night. He can feel the muscles ripple under his palm and listens to Dean's breathing – it's steady but shallow enough that Sam knows Dean is still awake, even if he might pretend otherwise.

"We're going to be okay," he murmurs. "As long as we have each other."

When Dean doesn't reply Sam kisses his shoulder and closes his eyes, letting the rhythmic movement of his own hands lull him to sleep.

+

"Maybe we could at least swing by the Impala. Not to get it back, but just to check on it," Dean suggests the next day.

Sam takes it as a small victory.

+

The Impala looks bigger somehow. After spending so many weeks in different cars, smaller cars, Sam is taken by surprised by the sheer size of it. He chuckles to himself.

Dean is running his hands over the hood, and for the first time in weeks there's a real smile on his face.

They sleep in the Impala that night. It smells like leather and gasoline inside. The air is a little staler than Sam is used to, but it's still undeniably familiar.

Sam curls up against Dean's side in the backseat, and for a split moment he feels like the last months – _years_ – didn't happen. He feels content and safe and protected.

"Think it'll ever be like this again?" he whispers into the silence.

"No," Dean says, voice quiet. Then, "Maybe."

Sam exhales and slides his arm around Dean's middle. "It's nice to think it can be, either way," he says.

Dean snorts, but it sounds neither mocking nor disbelieving. It sounds a little sad, rather. Melancholic.

+

"I used to think one day it would be over," Sam says. He' staring down at a paper, at the smug face of Dick Roman. "That we'd win and go back to hunting ghosts and werewolves or something. I thought killing Azazel would do it at first. Then stopping the Apocalypse. Then defeating Lucifer. Then killing Eve."

"Yeah. I know," Dean says, voice low.

"It's never over though, is it?" Sam asks. "There's always something else. Something bigger. And it's always gonna be up to us to do something about it."

Dean gives him a sad smile. "Guess so, Sammy."

"It's not fair."

"Yeah, well. Life's not fair. Someone's gotta do it," Dean says. "

Sam folds the paper, making sure the picture is facing downwards, and puts it on the table between them. The motel they're staying in this time has flowers on the wallpaper – pink and yellow and white. It almost looks like they're framing Dean's head like halo.

"No one ever said being a hero is fun, huh?" he asks with a frown.

"I don't think we're heroes, Sam," Dean says. "We're just the poor schmucks who never had a choice in all of this."

Sam looks at Dean and wonders where Dean draws the lines. How their dad can be a hero while they're the 'poor schmucks.' John hunted to get revenge. Sam and Dean have long ago stopped hunting for personal reasons – they're doing this because it's who they are, what they do. Because they don't know how to be anything but this. Sam thinks that's a lot more heroic than anything their dad ever did. They don't need to save the world, because the world has nothing left to offer for them, but they do it anyway.

"I think you're one," Sam says softly.

"Yeah? How d'you figure that?" Dean asks with a bitter laugh. "I kill for a living and then drink like a fish to forget about it."

Sam winces. "Dean," he starts and wets his lips with a flick of his tongue. "When I was five, I fell down chasing a butterfly and skimmed my knee. You carried me home and patched me up. When I was twelve you took care of me when I had the flu even though you had to cancel a date with the hottest girl from school to stay with me. When I was fifteen you threw yourself between me and an angry spirit and got your ass handed to you."

"None of that makes me a hero," Dean replies, and glares at Sam over the table.

Sam cocks his head to the side and smiles sadly. "When I was 23, you sold your soul for me."

"Because I couldn't live without you," Dean replies.

"That doesn't mean it doesn't count. Look, people out there? They might not know what we do or who we are. Hell, those who do know us think we're the bad guys more often than not, but you've been my hero ever since I was a little kid."

"You're kind of an idiot then."

"Maybe," Sam replies. "I know you're not perfect. You're not invincible, and you're not always gonna save me. But you're still a goddamn hero in my book, Dean."

"Why?" Dean asks and despite the way he's rolling his eyes, there's something else in his voice. Like he really wants to know Sam's reasoning. "Because I did my job and took care of you?"

"Because you'd do anything to protect me even when I don't need you to anymore. You're the one person who's always been there for me, who I can always rely on. I've always looked up to you for that," Sam says. "I've always _loved_ you for that. You might not be able to save everyone you want to, Dean. Hell, in the end we might not even be able to save anyone. But I know you and I know you're still gonna try. If you ask me, that's all that counts."

"You're an idiot, Sammy," Dean says again, but this time his voice is softer. "Trying doesn't make me a hero. It's gonna get me killed one day."

He gets up from the table, and Sam's heart falls a little.

"Us," he says. "It's gonna kill us both. Together."

"And you're okay with that?" Dean asks, curling his hands into fists.

Sam gives him a sad smile. "I've died. And I've been on my own when you were dead," he says. "So, yeah, I'm okay with us dying together."

He gets up, standing in front of Dean, but doesn't dare touch him. It's Dean who finally reaches out and cups Sam's neck, tugging him into a kiss.

+

Sam's mouth moves over Dean's collarbone, the skin tasting like salt and a faint trace of soap. His hands slowly slide down Dean's sides, caressing, and Dean arches up against him even thought his cock remains soft, spent, come smeared between their bodies.

"I'll be okay as long as I have you," Sam murmurs against Dean's skin. For a moment he thinks Dean is maybe pretending he didn't hear him again, or that he maybe _actually_ didn't hear Sam this time, and then Sam is flipped onto his back. The bedsprings creak with the sudden movement.

Dean's eyes meet Sam's briefly and he places a brief kiss onto Sam's lips before sliding down Sam's body. His lips are hot and wet against Sam's skin, leaving a damp path in their wake that cools quickly as the air dries Dean's spit.

"Dean," Sam moans, twisting his hands in Dean's hair.

Dean hums, the sound vibrating against the soft skin of Sam's belly. His jaw brushes Sam's cock, the stubble scratchy and rough and Sam rocks his hips up helplessly. Dean shushes him, hands holding on to Sam's hips and pinning him down. He keeps kissing Sam's skin, exploring with lips and tongue. There's a sudden sting when Dean scrapes his teeth against the soft skin of Sam's hipbone and then his tongue is there to soothe the pain away.

"Dean," Sam groans. Then, "Dean. Fuck, Dean. Please."

Dean rolls the skin between his teeth, sucking on it before biting down gently, and the spike of pain has Sam gasping again. Dean pulls back then, blowing cool air against Sam's hip, and even in the dim light of the room, Sam can see the purple bloom of a bruise. Dean places a final kiss to Sam's skin before lifting his head. 

He's smiling.


End file.
